


Two things that should have happened, and one that still might

by pleasebekidding



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-24
Updated: 2011-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:12:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasebekidding/pseuds/pleasebekidding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That’s the way to a vampire’s heart.” What would have happened if Elena had just leaned into Damon?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two things that should have happened, and one that still might

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own TVD. If I did, there wouldn't be any damn hiatus.

Damon takes her hand, rougher than he has to, like he’s making a point. Places her hand on his chest.

“What are you doing?”

She doesn’t pull away. Not because she doesn’t want to, but… No, actually, because she doesn’t want to. His hands hold hers in place, warmer than you might expect, but cooler than her own.

His voice is creamy, thick. “You feel that?” He moves her hand over his chest, almost clinically. “It’s the sternum. Solid plate of bone.”

She understands. Fine, fine, Buffy makes it look easy. She’s not Buffy.

Suddenly he grabs her by the wrist, spins her until her back is against his chest. One hand to her left hip. She’s wearing the tank with the slits cut in the side, and now she’s wishing she’d worn an old t-shirt.

Remembers that she’d put on an old t-shirt, and then discarded it in favour of this one. She can’t remember why. And then she can.

He’s running his fingers into the slit, now, and his fingers don’t feel cool at all against her skin, fluttering against ribs which should not respond – but do. Her head is muddled, her lips swollen, tongue thick.

“Right here, just below the ribcage -” (his lips so close to her throat she can feel his breath on her shoulder)

“Next to the spine -” (it’s not her imagination; the whisper-soft touch, the way her jaw aches because he _will not put his mouth on it_ )

“That’s your way to a vampire’s heart.”

He withdraws his hand from the slit in the side of her tank, pads of his fingers remaining moments, mere moments longer than they need to. She feels her breath hitch, a delicious ripple of energy passing from finger to hip, from lip to lip.

“I’ll do whatever it is you need me to do, Elena.” And she can feel his mouth on her hair, the words barely breaths that shift her hair like silk in the breeze.

And she _leans._

Leans like molten molasses into the curve of his body.

Leans into the heat building up behind the cold façade of his skin.

Leans her ass against the unwilling twitch of his cock.

Leans into the body that must have been, _must_ have been made for her, because no two puzzle pieces could ever fit so well by accident.

Tipping her face up so that their jaws touch, she whispers “Anything?”

He’s gone before she finishes the word, and she’s alone again, shivering and aching and alone.

She may or may not have heard him whisper “No one’s going to hurt you” as he blurred away from what she knows he wanted.

 

 

Everything had gone so well. They’d had Stefan hogtied and chock-full of tasty vervain in the back of Alaric’s truck. Elena was less drunk than she thought she’d need to get to sell the whole premise.

And then something had happened, and the truck was on fire.

(And by the way, she thought, _why_ was the truck on fire? Remarkably hard to set a truck on fire. She’d considered it a moment, reminded herself she lived in Mystic Falls and let it go.)

The doors wouldn’t open.

And yet, she was out – could barely remember escaping, but she was out, and starting to run. Stefan was still in the truck. Elena paused, took a deep breath.

“Wait. Wait, wait.” Alaric looked at her like she’d lost her mind as she started to pull Stefan out of the back.

The three of them hit the bleachers just as the truck blew up.

And now she’s at the boarding house; Stefan is somewhere here, doubtless smirking about the fact that Elena saved his life again, not three days after he’d called her a ‘human blood bag’. She feels for the stake launcher attached to her arm, hoping she’ll get a chance to use it.

She sits on a table and pretends to protest Damon’s first-aid ministrations, the totally unnecessary Q-tip of antiseptic, and focuses solely on the sensation of being close enough to touch him, looking down from her perch. She realises she’s supposed to say something.

“You had Rebekah drooling all over you _and_ your… marshmallows.”

“Yeah. Before she skewered me.” Eyelashes too long and heavy to be real. “I thought you were too drunk to notice.” He’s focussed on her cheek. Unnecessarily. Like he’s trying to distract himself from the swell of her lips.

“I was faking most of it.”

His eyes flick to hers. “So was I.” He says it so softly she thinks she might have misheard; knows she didn’t.

Suddenly bold (i.e.: tipsy and not nearly discouraged enough for caution) she hooks one leg around Damon’s, pulling him closer. If he’d had any warning, he could have resisted, but the leg buckles and he half falls; one hand on the table, close enough to her thigh to put a thumb out and stroke her with it.

(She wishes he would, but he doesn’t.)

“Damon…” she breathes. If he would tilt his chin just so, their lips would meet in the middle and he’d never have to do a thing.

A quiet cough alerts her to Alaric’s presence. “You ready to get going, Elena?”

 

In the taxi, heading home, Elena works through a tumble of emotions; pissed off at Alaric for breaking the moment. Pissed off at Damon for not tilting his head just right.

Thrilled that the depth of her anger with Stefan was enough to launch two stakes close enough to his heart that he’d felt fear. (She hadn’t missed his heart; hadn’t been aiming for it. She didn’t want him dead.)

And there’s one more feeling… Oh, yeah. Bitter frustration.

She’s ignoring Alaric’s long gazes; he’s like a brother. Well, like a brother who actually notices what’s going on around him. He sees too much.

“Elena…”

“I’m not a kid, Ric. Don’t. Just… don’t.”

He sighs. “Just be careful.”

 

*

 

Damon lay on his bed. Trying to read. Research, ostensibly, but they had no way of knowing whether this book was written by someone who actually knew how to kill an original or by Klaus himself. Maybe one of these spells would kill Klaus. Maybe it would turn the neighbourhood cats into his minions.

Downstairs, sickening sounds. Whenever Stefan got bored, he’d lift the compulsion on one of the girls for just long enough so she’d feel the pain and the fear, start to scream – and then she’d be under, again.

At his worst, Damon had never relished another’s pain and fear like that. Not because he’s nice. Not because it’s wrong.

It’s just _tacky_.

He hears a click. Curses his exhaustion. He hasn’t fed enough, lately, too busy trying to stop Stefan from butchering the female population of Mystic Falls (and he notes, chagrined, failing at even _that_ ), and it’s slowing his reaction times. He needs to hit a blood bank. Or compel himself a new girlfriend.

When he looks up, Elena is leaning against the door.

Damon groans, squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “What, Elena? You want to pump some weights? You want to watch Stefan play bite poker with a bunch of compelled sorority girls? Don’t you have _homework_ to do?”

She’s silent, for a long time.

Finally, she sighs. “I could have let him burn in the truck, you know.”

Damon snorts. “Yeah. Right. Little Miss Still-Has-Hope, scourge of Rippers.”

She doesn’t react, doesn’t move a muscle.

“Do you know where I’d be right now, if Stefan hadn’t come to Mystic Falls? If Stefan hadn’t, but you had?”

“I’m gonna go with… the Grill. Or the library. Or a pillow-fight slumber party with Sabrina and Barbie.” He feigns disinterest, covering his eyes with the back of his wrist.

She walks towards the bed. Walks with such confidence, such assurance, that for a second he thinks it’s an illusion, it might be Katherine, after all. But he’d seen no cruelty in her eyes, no vicious glint; and now, he can hear her heart beating, heavy, steady, _human_ , and she smells like…

He doesn’t even know what she smells like. She smells like _Elena_.

And she’s way too close, and he should have been paying attention, but he hadn’t been, and now when he opens his eyes he finds her climbing onto the bed, heavy, determined thighs straddling his.

She leans until their faces are inches apart, one hand gripping his hair, the other on his pillow. Breasts swaying gently in her sweater, just a little more than he can handle.

“I’d be about here.”

“Elena…”

“And I’d be kissing you. Hard enough so you really _felt_ it.” Her voice is barely a rasp.

If he had any will, he’d be out of here. Across the room. Somewhere deep in the forest. Halfway across the country. Not letting his eyes drift closed again. Not listening to the steady beat of her heart.

So steady. Not scared. Not nervous. Determined.

“You know why I’m not kissing you now?”

 _Because you’re in love with my brother. Because you don’t want to. Because you’re not Katherine._

“You know why I didn’t let him burn in the truck?”

 _Same reasons._

“Damon. Look at me.”

He shouldn’t, knows he shouldn’t. He does. Eyes hungry. Useless heart rolling over like Pavlov’s dog.

“If I kiss you right now, you’re going to think it’s only because Stefan’s gone. Because I miss him, and I want him back.” She leans infinitesimally closer, and he can feel her breath on his lips, smell the blood rushing beneath her skin.

(He has to remind himself Stefan’s _not_ gone. Stefan’s downstairs drinking from the femoral artery of a girl who’s still wearing a promise ring.)

“You’d be half-right. I want him back. But I want him back for _you_ , Damon. He’s your _brother_. You love him.” She pulls his hair just a little harder, and he feels an involuntary moan escape his throat. “We’re going to get him back, we’re going to force his humanity down his throat like a salted slug. We’re going to bring St Stefan back. Because if we don’t do that, you’re going to think you’re my consolation prize.”

Even with no need for breath, for oxygen, Damon finds himself almost panting.

“You’re not a consolation prize, Damon. You’re my choice.”

With a sudden burst, Elena leans the last half inch, and bites his lower lip, hard. Draws blood.

He’s instantly erect, feels his body warming. Surely, she can tell, but her face, determined and flushed, betrays nothing, save the unmistakable desire to prove what she’s saying.

Damon runs through a thousand useless lines in his head. _You’ll feel differently when he’s back. I’m not good enough for you. My brother deserves you._

(And, _You need to hear it. Just once._ )

(And, _I can’t be selfish with you._ )

He’s still trying to find something to say when he feels her release his hair, feels her rub a thumb across his unresponsive lips, already healing. As she climbs off him, he tries to sit up.

“Elena…”

“No. Don’t. Let’s save him. Whatever you want to say, say it once you know I’m telling the truth.”

As she stands, she lets a finger trail down his chest. He lets his eyes close once more, the only defence against just doing as he’d always done; just taking her, because he’s Damon Salvatore, and damn it, what he wants, he takes.

“Later, Damon.”

And she’s gone, and it’s just the leftover scent in the room.

And then, he realises he’d been wrong; in fact, _that_ was the way to a vampire’s heart.


End file.
